I want to tell her I’m sorry, but I can’t get the words out. Everything’s changed between us, and I don’t know how to fix it.
In five minutes, she’s out. I hesitate before arranging her on the couch and covering her with a blanket.
When I walk out of the room, Jaeger is waiting. He’s wearing a white tux. I study his black eye.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing,” he returns easily. He never lets anything bother him for long. “I’ll keep her safe.”
I head to the study where the senator is holding court. He’s behind his desk, showing off a bottle of wine to the Vesuvio capos. I join St. James and Damien beside the window.
“Did Atticus test that?” I ask St. James, looking at the bottle of wine.
“We did one better,” St. James says. “We swapped it out with our own.”
“Save some for Sal. He loves this shit,” one of the capos says.
“They better get here soon,” the senator jokes.
“They’re coming,” the capo says. “Frankie just texted me.”
The wait is killing me.
Out in the hall, the clock chimes midnight.
It’s now or never.
I face my Fraternitas brothers. “I need to speak with you.”
St. James and Damien glance at each other as if to say, ‘Now?’
“I want to call off the engagement.”
“Now?” St. James shakes his head, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “It’s done.”
Damien frowns, studying me. “You don’t want her anymore?”
“I want her.” I struggle to explain. “I don’t want to force Bella to marry me.” I look apologetically at St. James, who did all this work to give me what I want on a silver platter when I asked him for Bella a few weeks ago.
“The marriage will convince the Vesuvios we’re in lockstep with the Poisoner,” St. James says. “You mess with the Boscos, you mess with us.”
“I understand, and I still want to protect her.”
“Without the marriage?” Damien has a shadow of a smile on his face. “You want to claim her.”
“I want her to claim me.”
“It’s too late.” St. James waves a hand at the window. Outside, several black cars have pulled into the mansion’s circular driveway. The rest of the Vesuvios are here.
“There has to be a way,” I say, feeling desperate. “Some sort of contract. I’ll do anything?—”
“A toast to the truce,” the senator says and raises his glass, but a tremor goes through his hand.
He opens his mouth again, then chokes.
The capos stop talking and stare.
The senator drops the glass. It shatters on the floor while he clutches at his collar. Slowly, he falls, hitting his desk on the way down to the floor. St. James and Damien cross the room with me on their heels. St. James checks the senator’s pulse, while Damien rips open the senator’s shirt, sending buttons flying and starts chest compressions.
